


Too Marvelous For Words

by luninosity



Category: British Actor RPF, X-Men: First Class (2011) RPF
Genre: Fireplaces, Fluff, Holidays, LOTR References, Love, M/M, Or At Least Talking About Making One, Rain, Sex Tapes, Star Wars References, reassurance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-18
Updated: 2013-12-18
Packaged: 2018-01-05 00:35:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,569
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1087490
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/luninosity/pseuds/luninosity
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>For the prompt: James and Michael make a sex tape, on a rainy night in front of a toasty fireplace… Actually it’s more like James and Michael bake cookies, kiss a lot, and contemplate their agents' suggestion of making a sex tape, sorry! With, um, bonus appearances by the Lord of the Rings soundtrack and Michael’s love of Star Wars.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Too Marvelous For Words

**Author's Note:**

> For [kitsygirl](http://kitsygirl.livejournal.com/). Title and opening lines from the Sinatra song of that name.

  
_you're just too marvelous, too marvelous for words_  
 _like "glorious", "glamorous," and that old standby "amorous"_  
 _it's all too wonderful, I'll never find the words_  
 _that say enough, tell enough, I mean they just aren't swell enough…_

  
  
“A sex tape,” James says. He lets tone and inflection say even more.  
  
“My agent thinks it’ll be good for us…” Michael sounds miserable. As he should, springing this idea out of nowhere, no warning. Outside the rain purrs steadily, thoughtlessly highlighting the sudden chill in the room. The fire crackles, unrequested commentary.  
  
A minute before the room’d been friendly. Tea and blankets, biscuits made and decorated and at hand for nibbling, Howard Shore’s Fellowship of the Ring soundtrack playing from the laptop speakers, the two of them sprawled on the floor assembling a Star Wars Ewok Village Complete With Stormtrooper Captive™ that’s ostensibly a Christmas gift for Michael’s niece but isn’t actually going to make it there. They’ll have to buy another one. James doesn’t mind—though Michael’s going to owe him an Enterprise replica—but that’s no longer the most pressing issue at hand. As it were.  
  
“Good for our careers? Publicity for the film?” Michael tries. The usual lilt in that Celtic-heather voice sounds flattened. Mournful. “James, I said no. But it might come up again…”  
  
“Such a fantastic choice of words you’ve made.”  
  
“Oh, fuck. I mean—oh Christ sorry. I didn’t mean fuck. I mean—you know what I mean.” Michael drops his face into his hands. “No you don’t. I don’t even know what I mean.”  
  
“You mean your agent asked you if we’d consider making a sex tape to bolster our careers. X-Men no longer only a gay-rights metaphor, and all that. And your agent talks to my agent.”  
  
“Um. Yes. That’s…exactly what I mean. I’m so sorry.”  
  
James raises eyebrows. Pokes an Ewok with his index finger. It wobbles on its perch. In the background, the Nazgul attack. Stabbing pointy swoops of music. “Wasn’t your idea. Think we should?”  
  
“…what?”  
  
“Well, you _are_ gorgeous. And they’re not wrong about the publicity. I’m not saying I’d run around making sex tapes with just anyone, mind. I happen to love you.”  
  
“ _You’re_ gorgeous,” Michael says, promptly and loyally. James rolls his eyes, because short and pasty-skinned and freckled is not anyone’s idea of a porn star, and Michael stretches an impossibly long arm over and grabs him and yanks him close, heedless of figurines and tiny trees and sharp miniature weaponry.  
  
“Ow!”  
  
“Sorry! What—”  
  
“Tiny fuckin’ arrow in the back. Jesus. Assassinated by Ewoks.” He sits up long enough to toss the little monster into the box, and then flops back down, lying lazily on his back on the plush softness of the hearth-rug. It’s a blue rug, because Michael’d picked it out; and Michael’s leaning over him, grey-green eyes inches away, half-amused and half-worried. “You’re not actually—”  
  
“Injured by your undying passion for space opera? No.” He puts a hand in Michael’s hair, tugs him down into a kiss. “Thinking about your sex tape? Maybe.”  
  
“You…wouldn’t really…”  
  
“I might. Come on, the paparazzi’s already caught us snogging at a Barnes and Noble, at your last film premiere, at the Golden Globes…you’ve said you love me in interviews…”  
  
“I do!” Michael rolls over on top of him. Kicks inquisitive blankets out of the way. The soundtrack shivers concurrently into something delicate and mystical and magical; James laughs, and Michael must think it’s a reply to his comment, because those lakewater eyes grow anxious. “James, I mean it. I love you. You believe me, right? You don’t have to do this to—to keep me, or—”  
  
“I’m not.” Michael doesn’t look convinced. James sighs, wriggles into a better position, wraps a leg around Michael’s waist—mentally cheers for yoga and his own flexibility—and slides a hand to the back of Michael’s neck, fire-warmed and familiar, soft with fine curling hair. “I love you. And I believe you when you say you love me.”  
  
“Good,” Michael says, sounding a little dazed, though this may be a result of the leg and the hand sneaking up under his shirt, finding the muscles and planes of his back.  
  
“We could do the sex tape thing,” James continues, “we’re in love, we’re…y’know, committed to each other…in a relationship…it wouldn’t be that much worse than anything already out there. And if we do it, it’s on our terms, and not, oh, some lunatic sneaking a camera into our hotel room when we’re celebrating after you win your first Academy Award.”  
  
“Me—James, if it’s ever one of us it’d be you—”  
  
“We could do it here.” He glances around: the cavernous fireplace, the toasty room, candlelight and holiday presents and all the blankets, the heaps of fluff Michael’d collected and plopped atop him as defense against the cold. The scent of fresh-baked gingerbread and oven-heat and richly sugared tea. Home.  
  
“I’d feel…” He hesitates, kisses the sensitive spot right under the curve of Michael’s jawbone , the hint of stubble and strength and soap from this morning’s post-interlude shower. Admits, words brushing over skin, not looking up, “…safe, doing it here.”  
  
“Oh,” Michael says, very softly, and slips his hand under James’s head, large and warm, cradling him. “Yes. Of course. I love you.”  
  
“Well, then. So that’s a yes?”  
  
“…I don’t know. I don’t know if I like the idea of sharing you.” Michael’s hips’re pressing down into his, though, and certain parts of Michael definitely seem excited by the idea. At great length. James smiles to himself; Michael balances weight on one elbow, lifts a hand, traces the contours of his lips. “You look happy.”  
  
“I am,” James says, and kisses the fingertip when it pauses, resting weight over his mouth, an inquiry and not a command, though he’s perfectly willing to give the yes. “With you. I’ve told you.”  
  
He has. I knew I was in love, he’s said in interviews, whole and unembroidered truth, because the world got brighter. Because I felt like I could maybe like myself a little bit somehow, the person I am with him. The way he looks at me. Like we can conquer anything, together.  
  
He says as much again to Michael now, in case those concerned peat-moss eyes need to hear it. I’m here, you’re here, you sing in the shower and talk about having someone to come home to and I wake up smiling, these days. All of these days. Adds, “So we can certainly handle a fuckin’ sex tape,” and gets the laugh.  
  
“And it’s not sharing.” He coaxes the worn cotton of Michael’s t-shirt up towards well-muscled shoulders. Feels the firelight splash over bared skin; hears the song of the rain, underpinning the fantasy orchestra. “No one else gets to have me. No one else gets to have you. They’ll just have to watch and be envious.”  
  
“Of me having you? Yes, absolutely.”  
  
“Oh, stop.” He swats an available shoulder, lightly. “Being serious.”  
  
“So was I.” Michael sits up, flings off his own shirt—James openly appreciates the slim waist, the lean muscles, all the elegant lines of him—and then comes back down and pushes up James’s sweater, intent glinting in those celadon eyes. Starts kissing his stomach, lips traveling over pale skin, while James blushes and catches his breath and yelps when the beard-scruff tickles.  
  
Michael stops and looks him right in the eyes, and says quietly, “You’re beautiful, and that’s why we’re going to do this, we’re going to do this so you can see yourself, the way you move, the way you look when I touch you— _here_ —”  
  
“ _Yes_ there—oh _fuck_ —”  
  
“—the way you sound, Christ, James, you’ve no idea.” Michael kisses his hip, moves the fingers again, grins with all those teeth at the resultant gasp. “So. Sex tape. For us. Right here. The rain, and the fire, and you…”  
  
“Yes,” James says, still panting, Michael’s fingers still busy, and it’s a wonder he can think of any words at all but this one’s an important one so he manages it, “yes.”  
  
“We should rehearse,” Michael muses, mock-seriously. “Practice rounds. Several.”  
  
James just moans, because Michael’s found someplace that’s causing his brain to short-circuit, sending electricity everywhere.  
  
“We might need more blankets. Wouldn’t want you to get rug burn.” With a nuzzle of scruffiness into his left hip, which really ought to contradict that statement, but apparently beard-burn is desirable even if rug-burn is out, and James isn’t going to argue, because the rough scrape of it is delicious and dizzying and he knows his skin will be pinkening under Michael’s ministrations and he loses himself in the rawness of the sensation.  
  
From the laptop, the Nazgul shriek. Ringwraiths crashing the party.  
  
Michael blinks—eyelashes sweep over his skin—and grumbles, “Really?”  
  
“We’ll get an orc-free soundtrack,” James promises, and puts his hand on Michael’s head, fingers twining into welcoming strands of hair, “for the proper version. And also…”  
  
“What?”  
  
“No Ewoks. And you’re not allowed to title it James and Michael’s Holiday Special.”  
  
Michael blinks again, starts laughing, starts kissing him everywhere while the fire leaps up in merriment, moment not broken but even more brilliant, distilled and pure and glorious as the night. “I love you so fucking much.”  
  
“Yes,” James agrees, and lifts his hips for Michael to dispose of his pants, “I know.”


End file.
